


Moving the Markers

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Canon-typical Alcohol Consumption, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's FSU jacket, Crowley's Orange Jacket (Good Omens), M/M, Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, the m25, the origins of the FSU jacket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: “I’ve triedeverything. Bribery, computer hacks, even a couple of break-ins. But nothing –nothing– seems to be working forthis last bit. The very last bit! Everything else is perfect, it’s just this onebloodyfield...”“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly. “I suppose you could just... move the markers.”***Fic written for theUnleash the Chaos Zine, a fanzine focused on Crowley's FSU jacket from the TV show.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 81
Collections: Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	Moving the Markers

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to the mods of this zine for your incredible work! I feel so lucky to be part of this project, and it's been an amazing experience. The final zine is beautifully designed, filled with some incredible writing and art, and I'm so proud of everyone involved.
> 
> Thank you so much too to [EveningStarcatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarcatcher) for being such a wonderful beta reader for this fic! Star, you're the best.

Aziraphale was reorganising a shelf when it happened.

One moment the bookshop was quiet, filled with the cosy nostalgia of a hundred rediscovered books being gently shifted and lovingly admired, the wash of memories warming the angel with a cosy kind of delight.

The next instant, chaos.

The shop door was flung open, the roar of the street outside shattering the mood, the cold, damp air encroaching on the angel’s soft haven. An angry black and red blur shot over the threshold and past the stacks, disappearing into the back with a frustrated “URGH!” and a click that made the front door slam. Then followed the familiar sound of a demon flinging themself onto the sofa.

The angel put down the copy of _Wuthering Heights_ he had been leafing through. He took a breath, straightened his waistcoat, then stepped out from between the shelves.

“Hey, angel, what’s crackin’?”

The voice was a smooth drawl that fitted perfectly with someone of the era being effortlessly cool (or at least trying to be). The fact that said drawl was coming from an angel who looked like a stuffy librarian (and had done for most of his existence) was a little disconcerting.

Aziraphale swapped back into his own voice, continuing the imagined conversation. “Oh, Crowley dear, how lovely to see you. I’m doing wonderfully, how are you?”

The angel rounded the corner into the back room and smiled down cheerfully at the sofa. The blur had, as expected, manifested into a demonic lump, a chaotic mess of angles and black fabric.

The lump shifted, long limbs making way for a face that was mostly a large pair of sunglasses and a wide moustache. The face glared at the angel, then disappeared back into the cushions.

“Bloody brilliant,” came a muffled voice.

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale said, still smiling. “Tea or wine?”

The face surfaced again, glaring slightly less now. “Wine. Please.”

“Right-o.”

* * *

“An’ I jus’... I was _so close_ , and it just...” Crowley’s hands fluttered squiffily through the air like so many missed chances disappearing into the ether.

Aziraphale, a tad sozzled himself, watched the demon’s long fingers dancing above them, imagining each digit as a particularly inebriated butterfly searching for a way out. It took a while for the words to register.

“Well, it’s not over yet, is it, my dear?” he said after a moment. “Construction hasn’t started, you said. Still time to...” – the angel waved his own hand in front of his face, trying to conjure up the appropriate compliment to Crowley’s plan – “enact your demonic wiles?”

The demon groaned, not for the first time that evening. “Yeah, but I’ve tried _everything_. Bribery, computer hacks, even a couple of break-ins. But nothing – _nothing_ – seems to be working for just _this last bit_. The very last bit! Everything else is perfect, it’s just this one _bloody_ field...”

There was another long pause while Crowley refilled their wine glasses, miraculously not spilling a drop. Each took deep draughts of the stuff.

“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly. “I suppose you could just... move the markers.”

The demon’s eyes, long since divested of their shades, widened. “Move... the markers?”

“Yes, well. Why not?” Aziraphale tried to defend his ludicrous suggestion, blustering on so as not to get laughed at. “Clipboard and high-vis, no one would suspect a thing. If they were even around to see. It’s late now, isn’t it? And if it’s really such a small change, nobody would notice.”

Crowley’s eyes somehow widened even further, the vertical pupils themselves expanding against the yellow.

“You... you...”

“Oh hush, my dear, I know it’s silly. I was just trying to help. You know I’m not exactly an expert on effecting demonic plans –”

“No,” Crowley said quietly. “No, angel, you... You’re a genius.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased together slightly as his alcohol-addled mind parsed this bit of speech. Then they shot up in belated shock. “What?”

“You’re a genius!” Crowley reaffirmed, uncoiling himself from the drunken heap he’d become and leaping unsteadily to his feet. “Actual bloody genius, right here.”

The angel seemed to have forgotten the inciting incident to this outburst. “Wha... why?”

“Move them!” Crowley crowed happily. “Move the markers! Genius!”

Privately, Aziraphale thought the suggestion wasn’t particularly up to much in the realms of ‘exceptional intellectual or creative power’, but he wasn’t going to refuse the compliment.

It took him a moment to realise that Crowley was headed towards the door.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

The demon stopped. He turned slowly, still a little unsteady, towards Aziraphale. The eyebrows above his sunglasses had pressed together, producing a rather adorable image of total confusion. “To... move the... markers?”

“Not like that you’re not.” Aziraphale tutted, pointedly looking Crowley up and down.

“Wha’s wrong wi’ this?” Crowley said indignantly. “’Sss stylish!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ _No_ , not that, you silly snake.” He giggled at Crowley’s miffed expression, then staggered to his feet.

The demon followed warily as the angel wandered off through the shop, humming as he went. Crowley’s mind was racing, inasmuch as his alcohol-drenched brain allowed his mind to race. Where, exactly, were they going?

The question was answered almost immediately. Aziraphale stopped at a small door wedged between two shelves and opened it. Or at least, tried to open it. He paused, frowning, when the door wouldn’t budge, and slowly lowered his gaze down to the foot of the door, entirely hemmed in by books.

The angel harrumphed and clicked his fingers. The books vanished, and a thump sounded at the other end of the bookshop. Crowley winced.

“Want me to go sort that out, angel?”

Aziraphale looked at him, a little pained. “No, no, I’ll fix it later.” His face brightened as he remembered what they were here for. “Need to fix _you_ first!”

Crowley gulped, then a second later grimaced and hoped the angel hadn’t heard. He didn’t seem to have, though – he was currently half-buried in the newly-freed cupboard, humming merrily again.

“Ah-ha!”

The angel spun round, beaming like the sun itself, and almost fell over in his excitement.

Crowley couldn’t help but smile back for a moment, his gaze resting adoringly on Aziraphale’s unfiltered delight. It took a minute for him to realise the angel was holding something out to him.

“What’s this, then?”

“This,” said Aziraphale triumphantly, “is a high-visibility jacket.”

It took Crowley a second to cotton on. “What?”

“For your... demonic wiles!” Aziraphale was still grinning brighter than was probably safe at this distance without protection. “So you can move the markers, and no one will know you’re not exactly where you’re supposed to be!”

“Oh,” Crowley said eventually. “Right.”

“Put it on, then!”

Everything feels a bit blurry and slow when you’re drunk. Especially when you’re occult-being-capable-of-consuming-far-more-alcohol-than-any-human drunk. Which is why, for a moment, Crowley didn’t realise what he was being asked to do. And when he did, his jaw dropped.

Aziraphale was reaching out, a little more nervously now but with no less certainty, holding the jacket open for Crowley to put on.

The demon paused. Then – slowly, carefully, not willing to risk even the slightest chance of fucking this up – he turned his back on the angel, and reached his arms behind him, searching for the sleeves.

The fabric brushed his fingers a little, and then Crowley felt it slide over his arms, ever so gently, and come to rest against his back in a weighty, high-vis hug. A firm pressure landed on his shoulders, and then Aziraphale’s strong hands were spinning him back round to face him.

Crowley stopped breathing. The angel was close to him now. Too close. A memory he didn’t particularly want to think about right now – one from only a handful of years ago, a millisecond in a life so long – surfaced sharply, and he almost stepped back, away, out of this too-close, too-soon, too-fast encounter.

Almost.

Aziraphale tilted his head to one side, looking intently at the jacket. He straightened it a little, then moved a half-step closer and began – a little tipsily – to do the jacket up.

The angel’s immaculate fingers were surprisingly deft and quick on each button, but the movement upwards was slow, almost painfully so. Crowley didn’t dare move a muscle, afraid to break whatever _this_ was.

Eventually, Aziraphale reached the top. He paused, gave a satisfied little hum, then smoothed his hands down the front of the jacket.

“Perfect.”

“Um, erg... ngk.”

Then the angel stepped away and the moment was gone.

“Now, do make sure you sober up first if you’re thinking of driving, my dear. You don’t want your stubbornness to hurt the Bentley.”

Normally, Crowley would have scoffed and made some quip. Somehow, though, every smart line he’d ever thought of had evaporated.

He looked down at his new accessory – massively oversized, eminently uncool, and yet absolutely perfect in every conceivable way. He dared a glance up at Aziraphale. “Thanks.”

The blue eyes twinkled in the warm bookshop light. “Not a problem at all, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do go and check out the other amazing works in [the collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/fsu_jacket_zine) \- this zine is filled with so much talent!


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